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Lion Dream

 

I may have been wounded before I came            
               to you, I was
I know. A large fierce feline gripped            
             
me by the neck
back before I knew anything of sex or           
              
logic,
like a cat moving kittens, only rougher,
its piercing canines, its carnivorous            
              
breath—
it hasn’t let go yet. 

When the abrasion of your unconcern,
saying you love, then roughly “I’m           
              
in pain, I suffer, I’ve got
serotonin deficiency, I don’t let that           
              
stop me,”
as if toughing it out answered terror,           
              
answered it, yes, like a brutal
father, I wake with the baked desert           
              
air
in my ear, its throb a dryer,           
              
scratches
 

at my left arm, mauled memory, etched net of scar
wondering about harm, what it            
               wants from me.
  


Monica Raymond writes poems and plays, tries to pare down towards a carbon neutral life (the computer's my last squandering refuge), and has spent the last year ricochetting between Cambridge, Massachusetts and the Twin Cities, where she was a 2008-9 Jerome Fellow at the Playwrights Center. Her play, THE OWL GIRL, just won a national award in political playwriting from the Castillo Theater in NYC.   


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